When the music ceased the priests and vestals chanted in unison:
“We give thee myriads of years. Like the moon advancing to the full; like the sun ascending to the heavens; like the everlasting southern hills; like the luxuriance of the fir and cypress—never waning, never failing!—may such be thy succeeding lines.”
“Om—ah! Om—ah! Om—ah!” murmured the four at the altar.
“Orondo, servant of the Most High,” said Imos impressively, “art thou in any way related to this maiden by ties of blood, intimate or remote?”
“The silken cords of affection are all that bind me here.”
“Dost thou swear this by the sacred fire on the altar before thee?”
“I do.” Orondo spoke firmly.
When the high-priest had asked the same questions and received the same responses from Ildiko, he continued:
“Orondo, on thy honor as a man, is the solemn covenant thou art about to make voluntary on thy part?”
“It is.”